


Everyday Miracles

by SnitchesAndTalkers



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bickering, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Mild Smut, Post-Canon, Power Outage, adorable Aziraphale, impatient Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-05-07 07:01:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19204285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnitchesAndTalkers/pseuds/SnitchesAndTalkers
Summary: In which Crowley believes everything can be solved with a miracle and Aziraphale reminds him that sometimes, the journey matters more than the destination.





	Everyday Miracles

**Author's Note:**

> So, whilst I'm not new to Good Omens, I'm very new to Good Omens fanfiction. Please be gentle.

And on the first day, God said “let there be light.” And so, there was, and so it remained on that day and on every other day since for roughly 2.2million days that followed (give or take a few leap years, which were invented to confuse primary school children and to annoy everyone who was born on the 29th of February). Light was there and humans used it to do useful things like growing things and illuminating things and reading the newspaper. Everyone agreed it was a jolly good idea and then promptly thought no more about it because, well, because it was _light_ and you don’t go worrying about a thing like _light._

At least, no one worried about it until roughly a quarter to ten at night on a Thursday in October when, suddenly, there was no light at all.

“Bugger,” said Crowley, glancing up from where he was engaged in needlessly complicated meddling with the stock exchange that would, no doubt, come back to bite him in a day or two when he remembered that he generated a large amount of his income from the stock exchange. “Angel? Bloody heaven, he can’t hear me over the – _Angel?”_

In his struggle to get upright in the pitch dark, he unsettled his phone from his lap and promptly filled it with tepid coffee from the mug by his elbow. It was probably fortunate that the only heavenly being in a sizeable radius was currently occupied elsewhere, because the curse he let forth was far from Godly.

The thing that Aziraphale could not hear him over was a gramophone. Because Aziraphale believed in conserving all things that he found beautiful, regardless of how much _easier_ or _more efficient_ or _better_ their modern replacements might be. So, when he wanted to listen to Tchaikovsky or Wagner or Velvet Underground – which he found he liked in carefully controlled doses – he didn’t fire up the Bang and Olufsen like a normal person, no. Instead, he cranked the handle like a Victorian gentleman – or possibly Edwardian, it was so easy to lose track of these things – and listened to it by the light of an oil lamp as he read the very important books in his library and thought nothing of the world beyond the door.

“Angel,” said Crowley, at the very same door and in the very same world that Airzaphale had forgotten all about. “For Satan’s sake, _Angel_ , can you hear me?”

Aziraphale jumped. “Oh,” he said, pushing a curl or two out of his eyes and glancing up. “You’ve spilt coffee on yourself.”

“How remiss of me,” Crowley growled, brushing at the stain on his jeans. It rolled away. “Did they teach you observations like that in angel school? I’ll bet you were excellent, top of the class, got to sit right in front of the teacher, didn’t you?”

Aziraphale blinked owlishly behind his glasses and then shrugged. “There – We didn’t _have_ an angel school, I don’t… Oh!” And he pointed at Crowley and smiled that large, beaming smile he reserved just for him, the one that made him feel all inappropriately warm and generous towards his fellow man (or not so fellow, since he was a demon, but the sentiment was the same). “You’re being _sarcastic,_ aren’t you? Jolly clever. Jolly clever _indeed.”_

“Hmm,” said Crowley, because it was difficult to say much at all when Aziraphale looked at him with those impossibly wide eyes and smiled with those ridiculously well-sculpted lips. It was said that Satan himself was the most beautiful angel in all of heaven. Crowley often thought Aziraphale must have been at home sick the day that particular contest was judged.

“Anyway,” Aziraphale clapped his hands together briskly, “how can I help you, my dear?”

Crowley gestured expansively at everything that was not Aziraphale’s lamp, library or gramophone. “The power’s gone off. Again. Honestly, someone ought to do something about the National Grid, it’s just not up to scratch.”

“Um,” Aziraphale cleared his throat delicately, “someone _did_ do something about the National Grid, and I believe that someone was _you._ ‘I just want to mess it up a _little bit,’_ you said, ‘nothing _silly,_ just enough to make people really annoyed when they get home from work and can’t watch Ant and Eric,’ that’s what you said.”

“Ant and _Dec,”_ Crowley corrected and then he fell silent – glumly – because Aziraphale was right and the whole National Grid thing _was_ his idea. But then he brightened because no one else had access to a celestial being and he absolutely did. “You could do a little miracle,” he suggested casually. “Just a teeny tiny one.”

Aziraphale humphed and took the glasses from the bridge of his nose and polished them carefully on the hem of his argyle jumper.

“You could,” Crowley insisted. “You could do a tiny little miracle just for me and switch my computer back on so I can get on with my nefarious deeds and then I wouldn’t be here, getting under your feet and stopping you from listening to Beethoven.”

“Mozart,” said Aziraphale and Crowley frowned because he didn’t know they were about to start listing composers.

“Chopin?” he said hopefully. Compliance might buy acquiescence, after all. “Bach? Brahms?”

“No, I’m listening to Mozart. And what miracle – what miracle _exactly_ – were you hoping I might perform?”

Crowley cleared his throat and said, “Well, the one your lot are sort of known for, you know?”

“I see,” said Aziraphale, without irony. It was in fact incredibly ironic because no one else in the whole county of Hampshire _could_ see, because all of their lights had gone out. “I mean, we have an oil lamp, and a gramophone. We could stay in here until the appropriate people – the humans, that is – get it all sorted out.”

Crowley pouted, his best and most attractive pout. “Oh _come on_ , Azi, one _tiny_ little insignificant miracle, just for me?”

“I could get into trouble!”

“No you bloody well couldn’t! They didn’t smite you when you lost the flaming sword, or when you tried to avert the apocalypse! They’re hardly going to go around smiting you for switching on a lamp! This is not the kind of thing that gets one smitten.”

“Smote,” Aziraphale corrected absently. He tipped his head to the side which made his curls fall into his eyes once more which made him blow at them gently. He really was the loveliest looking creature. “Not smitten. No one is currently smitten, or has been smitten, that’s a different verb _entirely._ And anyway, why don’t you do it, hmm?”

“Can’t,” said Crowley, shrugging. “Not my department’s forte, you know? You buggers are the ones who go around throwing light everywhere, we’re sort of renowned for the opposite.”

“Yin and yang,” said Aziraphale, like that was helpful. “Well, there shan’t be a miracle. But I wonder if we can find the fuse box and fix it.”

The thing about power cuts, the uncontrivable truth of them, is that they are all encompassing. No one gets a free pass and buggering about with the fuse box does very little if the local exchange box is not sending the necessary volts to that particular place. Crowley rolled his eyes so hard he was sure that Aziraphale would be offered a brief glimpse of his brain matter and then he said, in a very obvious tone of voice, “It’s a power cut, Angel.”

And, proving that the powers of Heaven far outweigh the sarcasm of Hell, Aziraphale nodded out of the window and said, “Number 32 seems to have electricity. Bet it’s a fuse. I bet you _anything_ it’s a fuse.”

“Smart arse,” Crowley muttered, but he said it with such deep and enduring fondness that Aziraphale blushed from the tips of his ears to the knot of his bow tie.

***

“The thing is,” said Crowley, poking at the fuse box with the tip of a screwdriver. “The thing _is,_ all of this would be sort of – well, _easier_ , if you just performed a bloody miracle, wouldn’t it? We could be back in the house, where it’s warm and dry, and not out here in the garage where it’s, well, it’s neither of those things, is it?”

Aziraphale raised a finger and poked at a large and furry-legged spider and said, “But that would be _cheating,”_ and the spider skittered away from him lazily. Crowley would’ve clobbered the bloody thing with his torch. That probably wouldn’t go down too well. “We don’t need to cheat, we’ve got twelve thousand years of combined life experience, how hard can it be?”

“Yes, and for more than eleven and a half thousand of those, everyone used sodding candles.” He pointed at Aziraphale with the screwdriver, Aziraphale flinched and ducked. “Now candles, they were a God – uh, a _Satan_ send. Knew where you were with a bloody candle.”

“I’m not terribly thrilled with the fire hazard,” Aziraphale muttered. “Hold the torch still, would you? I mean, I accept that human life is filled with far more fire hazards than it is with, say, holy water hazards. All _you_ really have to do is avoid christenings, and it’s not like anyone’s performing one of those in the middle of the supermarket. But yes, there was something rather charming about candlelight – Why is it you couldn’t just wait until morning and deal with this then if you're okay with regressing away from modern life?”

Crowley’s mouth was, in fact, very close to Aziraphale’s head as he held the torch and pointed to the various parts of the fuse box, none of which he knew how to operate. So, he took advantage of this and kissed his temple gently. “I just don’t like waiting for things, I suppose.”

“Hmm,” said Aziraphale gruffly, concentrating very fiercely on the fuse box. But the corners of his mouth tipped up and his cheeks pinked up like sunrise and he looked so enchanting that Crowley did it again, his mouth brushing the corner of Aziraphale’s smile this time. “You’re being very distracting. Hang on, I think I’ve got it, just – Yes! All done!”

And the garden flooded with light from the security lamp and the kitchen window glowed to their left and the rain misted in the shafts of it and caught like diamonds in Aziraphale’s hair as Crowley pushed him back against the wall and kissed him and kissed him and _kissed_ him.

***

“You know what your problem is,” Aziraphale said softly, his mouth very warm against Crowley’s ear. “Don’t you?”

Crowley was rather past the point of debating his character flaws – of which there were many – but he cocked his head to the side and hummed anyway. “No idea,” he said, “but I remain confident you’re about to tell me. Exquisite sense of timing, Angel, really superb.”

“Your problem,” said Aziraphale, and he paused to bite down on Crowley’s earlobe and smiled a very pleased smile when Crowley gasped, “is that you’re always in a rush.”

Crowley groaned and made a tight fist of the curls just behind Aziraphale’s ear. It was difficult to think when Aziraphale stretched out against him, cool and soft. “I mean,” and Crowley nodded to his erection, thick and hard and furious, “right now? Yes, I’m experiencing a certain sense of urgency.”

“Your first instinct is always to ask for a miracle,” Aziraphale said, instead of answering him, as he slipped down to lick over the dark bud of Crowley’s nipple.

It was peculiar, really, because demons spent their time down below and should, by rights, be as pale as those odd little ghost slugs that wriggle around eating earthworms and looking unbearably creepy, and angels spent their time up above and should have the most glorious suntan. Instead, Aziraphale was so pale and Crowley so dark and the contrast never ceased to make his stomach tighten. He canted his hips and wound his fingers through the intricate metalwork of the headboard and reminded himself that good things come to those who wait.

“You don’t complain when you benefit from them,” Crowley panted. Aziraphale licked over one of his ribs and Crowley managed not to make a joke about him stealing one to create himself a better partner.

“Be that as it may, you’ll never enjoy the richness of the human experience if you don’t slow down and enjoy the way it all unfolds,” Aziraphale shrugged and shouldered his way between Crowley’s thighs.

“Who wants to change fuses when you can just _wish_ for the lights to start working again?” Satan, but Crowley’s thoughts were liquid, dripping down through his brain and into his mouth and rolling from his tongue like red wine. That he was capable of forming actual sentences, with structure and appropriate grammar, well, that truly _was_ a miracle.

Aziraphale nipped at his thigh in a friendly fashion and said, “This is not about fuses.”

“Course not,” Crowley groaned and tipped his head back and thought this would be so much easier if he gave in and took himself in hand, “Give me one example, one thing that humans do that’s more fun _without_ a little miracle to ease the way.”

“Cheating, you mean,” Aziraphale said brightly, nosing gently at Crowley’s balls. It felt like the fuse box had rerouted, found new purpose and jolted directly into the base of his spine. It felt so unbelievably, inescapably _good_ that he thought he might cry with it.

“You call it cheating,” he gasped, even though he didn’t need to breathe, not really, “I call it pizazz.”

“One thing?” Aziraphale nudged him, both verbally and with the way he brought the warmth of his mouth and tongue and breath away from Crowley’s aching cock.

“One thing,” Crowley confirmed, and looked down. Which was almost his undoing because Aziraphale frowned at him thoughtfully, then licked his lips and left them very pink and swollen as he rested his chin casually on Crowley’s thigh.

“One thing?” he mused. When his hand closed around Crowley’s cock, Crowley saw stars – explosions, collapsing supernovae and bright, bursting flashes of anoxic light like passing out, like _drowning._ If he could drown. Which he could not. “I mean… This?”

Crowley struggled up to his elbows and glared at Aziraphale with great suspicion. “I…What?”

“This, right now,” Airzaphale stroked his fingers maddeningly along the length of Crowley’s cock, let his thumb brush up under the nervy sensitivity of the head and then kissed it, brief and sudden, “This is about the journey, is it not? If you wanted to, you could just miracle yourself to the finishing line, couldn’t you?”

He had a point. This was not something that Crowley liked to concede often.

“Well, I suppose…” he trailed off and rocked his hips and hoped Aziraphale might go back to the blowjob because he was quite fond of those. Definitely one of humanity’s better ideas. Top notch. A gold star for them.

Aziraphale, because he was contrary like that and enjoyed being right far more than any angel ought to, did not go back to the blowjob. “You could make yourself feel like that for hours,” he pointed out, which yes, Crowley could, _but…_ “For _days,_ but you don’t.”

“No, but…”

“And do you know _why_ you don’t?”

Crowley had read the term “shit eating grin” in a book once or twice. He believed that was what Aziraphale wore as he rubbed his smooth cheek against his thigh and blinked up at him.

“I remain confident that you’re going to tell me.”

“Because, for this, the journey _is_ the experience, isn’t it?” Aziraphale pontificated, like a true angel. Crowley ought to have left him at the gate. His life would be far less complicated. Actually, maybe not, since the Antichrist almost definitely would’ve brought about the End Times and the paperwork would’ve been _immense._ “This is the destination and the means of transportation and everything in between and you don’t miracle it because you like the unpredictability of the wait.”

Crowley sighed, and cupped his hand to the back of Aziraphale’s head, enjoying the way his curls felt under his fingers, the way they looked, pressing like ferns between his fingers. “I find it deeply dissatisfying that you’re actually right.”

“I know, I can tell by the way you’re glaring at me whilst rubbing your _penis,”_ and he hissed the word, just in case _She_ was listening, “into my jaw.”

“You could do something about that, you know?” Crowley pointed out.

“I could,” Aziraphale agreed lazily.

 And he swallowed him down, sudden and fast and _just like that_. Like a private miracle, Crowley thought, an obscene and unfathomable twist of fate that he got to enjoy this angel — _his_ angel — when no one else did. Then, he untangled his fingers from Aziraphale’s hair, laced them through the twists of the headboard and allowed himself to be thoroughly and decadently ravished.

“So, you’re saying changing fuses gets you going?” Crowley asked, when he’d tumbled back into his own skin, in their own bed, in their own little cottage at the edge of the village.

Aziraphale shook his head. “My dear, you know I can’t explain what I mean. It’s—”

“Ineffable?” Crowley suggested, lazily.

And Aziraphale smiled. “Yes, my darling. Ineffable.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> [I can be found on Tumblr here](https://sn1tchesandtalkers.tumblr.com/), if you'd like to pop across and reblog the little post I put together and share this fic with your friends :) 
> 
> Have a wonderful week!


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